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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27731899">Swapped Roles</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevent/pseuds/Sevent'>Sevent</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Geraskier Halloween prompts [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Swap, Costumes, M/M, Magic, Saovine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:14:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27731899</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevent/pseuds/Sevent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A magic artifact breaks, Jaskier and Geralt swap bodies, and a costume party turns into relationship counseling (but not for our body-swapped heroes).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Geraskier Halloween prompts [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967734</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>324</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Swapped Roles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is extravagantly late for what was supposed to have been a Halloween-themed fic, but random life events sure love to butt in and mess me up. *<i>shrugs</i>. Oh well. Halloween never ends in my book.</p><p>The trope/prompt combination: <b>costumes</b> + <b>body swap</b>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Geralt, when I say, ‘this has to be the weirdest thing that’s happened to us yet’, that’s not an invitation to prove me wrong.” </p><p>“Oh please,” Geralt rasps out and—why does he <em> sound </em> so raspy? It’s like he’s got a wet cough trapped inside his chest that, for some blasted reason, he refuses to clear up. “You blame me, bard, and yet you’re the one who touched the glowing plate.”</p><p>“Not on purpose! I tripped!” </p><p>“You tripped and broke the thing, and now look at us.”</p><p>Jaskier looks down at him—at <em> himself, </em> staring back with stern blue eyes. He looks down to leather-clad hands and black-booted feet, limbs not his own, all attached to a body that should not be under his puppeteering command. And yet when his nose begins to itch, it’s that foreign hand what creeps up to scratch at it, not his own.</p><p>Immediately the bard turns his eyes upward to fight the vertigo that hits him. Fortunately there’s other things to distract from it. Like how the sun’s rays bounce directly into his blinking eyes and whiteout the world.</p><p>Jaskier rubs his palms into his eye sockets. “Mmf. Can’t look now. Eyes hurt.”</p><p>And it’s not just his eyes causing him trouble. He can hear the leaves crunch with every step taken, as if he’s put his ear next to the ground when in reality he’s <em> several feet </em> above it, riding Roach. The clopping of her hooves even echoes inside his head, though the noise competes with clinking metal, the carrion bird cawing overhead, and leather rubbing against itself.</p><p>Being so aware of so many minute sounds for hours and hours could just about drive him crazy. How does Geralt <em> do </em> it?</p><p>Actually, maybe that’s why he’s always so grumpy.</p><p>Geralt—misplaced in Jaskier’s body, and looking just about as comfortable as Jaskier feels—holds the bard’s lute case closer to himself. His grip is sure, even protective. He hums, “That happens sometimes,” as he frowns down at the buckle that’s starting to wear with age. "Maybe don't look at the sun while you're at it."</p><p>A bubble of fondness blooms in Jaskier’s chest as he watches him fiddle with the case’s strap, trying to adjust it better. It's sweet that he's concerned over it, though Jaskier knows he won't verbally admit it.</p><p>The moment blows away as he registers the witcher's words a little late.</p><p>“What do you mean ‘that happens sometimes’?” He holds for Roach to slow, and the fact that she obeys him knowing <em> something’s </em> off will never stop surprising him. “Do your eyes just, hurt? Why don’t you ever say anything then?” </p><p>“It usually goes away.”</p><p>
  <em> “‘Usually’?” </em>
</p><p>Geralt has the nerve to shrug at him.</p><p>Jaskier sniffs—or tries to, but instead he ends up snorting saliva up the back of his windpipe. It’s quite the disgusting sensation. Doesn’t stop him from coughing up a cranky, “Your dubious <em> cuh-</em>confidence is <em> so </em> reassuring. Really just banishes all my concerns.” </p><p>He’s met with a second shrug and a deeper frown.</p><p>Really, the witcher is incorrigible. </p><p>Jaskier sighs through his newly-unstuffed nose, nearly startled of the horse as a deep hum resonates between his ears. He almost sighs again, just to test the one pleasant feeling he’s so far experienced. </p><p>“Seriously, Geralt. I also have this odd bruise-y ache all over, predominantly on my right side. And my mouth tastes like tin.”</p><p>“Yeah. And <em> your </em> back hurts.”</p><p>Without missing a beat, Jaskier throws back, “From years of carrying the weight of your fame and mine combined, yes. It <em> usually </em> goes away.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“Oh, that was a contemplative <em> ‘hm’. </em> A rare one to come by. Do you feel a bit of pity for your old pal's weary bones?”</p><p>Geralt punches his leg. “Shut up. You’re not that old.”</p><p>Regardless, they stop to camp an hour sooner than usual. By sunset, they’ve got a little rabbit stew cooking, as even stuck inside a bard, Geralt knows his traps and the best places to put them in.</p><p>“Your back better not bother me tomorrow,” the witcher grumbles into his stew.</p><p>It makes Jaskier smile, and in doing so, the muscles of his lips pull strangely taut.</p><p>He remembers then how rare Geralt’s smiles are.</p><p> </p><p>Down in the village, Jaskier dismounts Roach to lead her through the narrow dirt roads with better ease. He’s not as practiced as Geralt with riding, though his borrowed body seems to carry on well enough without his input.</p><p>“Come on, girl,” he urges with a gentle tug of the reins. “You be good and I’ll buy you some oats for tomorrow morning.”</p><p>As if insulted by the offer, she snorts and slaps his back with her tail. </p><p>At his squawk, Geralt—the imp—snorts too. She <em> definitely </em> got her attitude from him. </p><p>“O-hoh, you’re lucky I won’t hold that against you,” Jaskier says, and maybe it’s his tone, but she decides to butt her head against his. It’s Jaskier’s yet-unfamiliar quick reflexes what saves him from getting his nose smacked.</p><p>It’s a given that she’s getting annoyed with them and their antics. They ought to give her a break. She <em> did </em> nearly kick Geralt for trying to ride her in the morning, but that might just be because she still believes him to be an unusually-surly, Jaskier and not her typically-surly Geralt.</p><p>She’s a smart lady, but for this level of magic fuckery, she’s going to need a day or two to figure it out.</p><p>They’re making their way to the village’s lone witch hut when Jaskier pointedly asks, <em> “Can </em> the local village witch fix this?”</p><p>“It’s a magic artifact.” Said artifact clatters in its bag, the broken pieces tinkling together when Geralt raises it. “Or was.”</p><p>Despite being responsible for it’s broken state, Jaskier does not regret catching it before it hit the ground. Who knows what sort of unpredictable magical explosion it would have caused then, had it not been buffered through—and he’s saying this with the most delicate of sensibilities—a <em> meat shield. </em></p><p>“To be honest,” the witcher huffs, “It’d be better to find a studied sorcerer or sorceress, but a witch is a witch. A woman wise in the magical arts, just to a different discipline.”</p><p>That puts a perk in Jaskier’s step. “Good thing I know my way around—<em>ow.” </em></p><p>Right as he turns to show Geralt more of his own face smiling, a hanging sign catches his forehead completely by surprise. It’s not as if Geralt towers over him. They both have to duck their heads going into taverns sometimes. But this one sign just, <em> came </em> into existence.</p><p>And then, as he glares at the offending painted wood, its colors shine too brightly in the setting sunlight, and he has to look away from it with a wince.</p><p>“This...<em> eye thing </em> is really annoying.”</p><p>Geralt sighs. He somehow manages to make it sound grave coming from Jaskier’s merry voice. </p><p>“You’re expanding your pupils. Stop that and it’ll be fine.”</p><p>“I’m—sorry, expanding <em> what? </em> How am I doing that?”</p><p>A grimace paints itself onto Geralt’s borrowed face. “I don’t...know how to explain it, but don’t overthink it.”</p><p>His advice is phenomenally unhelpful and leaves a lot to be desired. But it might be something so ingrained into muscle memory—or second nature, living with his witcher eyes—that Jaskier won’t be able to tell what <em> to </em> stop even if Geralt were to explain properly. </p><p>For now, he follows the advice best and just, stops thinking about it. If it’s anything like breathing, his body will do the work for him. </p><p>Though he can’t help but notice Geralt’s lingering pout as they walk. </p><p>“Something wrong on your end?”</p><p>“It’s nothing,” the witcher lies. </p><p>Jaskier rolls his eyes at him. “I think we’re well past ‘nothing’ right now. Go on. Speak your piece.”</p><p>Something moves the air over Jaskier’s shoulder. It’s Roach, sniffing at him, her dark eyes glinting like marbles. She seems to have gotten over her mood and finds their conversation more interesting than the street rabble. </p><p>The bard gives the white spot above her muzzle a nudge. He’s seen Geralt do that a lot with her. Sure enough, he’s rewarded with a light push of her own, square against his chest.</p><p>Her nosing around brightens Geralt’s expression. It’s not enough to completely remove his sulk, but the lopsided twitch of his lips looks more bittersweet now than wholly sour.</p><p>“Well, see there? Roach wants to know what’s bothering you too.”</p><p>It takes him a second to start, but all too quickly, he cuts himself off with an angry-looking scowl. </p><p>Jaskier pays him mind with an encouraging hum.</p><p>“I don't know how to explain it. I feel...it feels like I’m, drugged. Moving slow. I can’t sense or smell anything, not even the people ten feet in front of me. It's all murky...distant. I wish—” </p><p>He stops before finishing the thought, leaving Jaskier to wonder what it is he wished for. Maybe that’s more indicative of how their past ‘wishing’ experiences have gone.</p><p>Beside himself, Geralt spits an irritated, “My own bag feels heavy to me.”</p><p>There’s something about the way that he says it that comes off more tired than anything. </p><p>“Let me carry it then.”</p><p>Geralt complains at his well-meaning offer, but passes the bag of magic shards anyway.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They end up seeing the local village witch. As the witcher predicted, she isn’t able to break whatever ridiculous spell is affecting them. But their visit is not all for naught. </p><p>She tells them to head into the neighboring town and speak with the ruling lord’s court mage, Barnibis or Berdabus or something of the like—the witch’s exact words, not Geralt’s—who is an avid artifact expert and collector. </p><p>He’s well known around these parts as he will brag to anyone who will listen about his large collection of trinkets. That usually means bragging to the lord himself, which leads the lord to <em>complain</em> to his vassals, who then go on to complain to the peasantry. The witch hears a lot about the lord and the mage that way. Whiny nannies, she calls them.</p><p>So they go into town, but with their growling stomachs fed only on rabbit stew, a stop at a tavern comes first. Jaskier's insistence. </p><p>Halfway through a marvelously cooked chicken sandwich, someone pulls up to ‘Geralt’—mistakenly, because it’s <em> Jaskier </em> in Geralt’s body—and pushes him off his chair.</p><p>Without even letting the man utter a word, Jaskier punches him square in the nose. </p><p>The man flops over on the ground like a sack of flour, his nostrils gushing blood quite impressively. </p><p>They get promptly kicked out. </p><p>“I can’t believe you just punched him.”</p><p>“That was really satisfying, actually.”</p><p>Geralt is seething up a storm as Jaskier walks on, licking his fingers clean—the tavern owners were decent enough to kick their food out with them. He’s so <em> infuriatingly </em> casual about the fight, a fight that didn’t need to happen in the first place. He could have just ignored the man. They could have enjoyed a couple more minutes of peace and quiet. </p><p>His hand wraps low around Jaskier’s arm to pull him to a stop, and it’s clear to Geralt that he only does so because he wants to.</p><p>It’s a peculiar feeling, suddenly, having their roles reversed like this. </p><p>“What,” the witcher scoffs, “You like starting fights now that you’re strong enough to hold your own?”</p><p>“No, I like defending you.” </p><p>He says it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that it stuns Geralt to silence.</p><p>“You never do it yourself,” Jaskier goes on to say, “So for once, it felt great not to try and talk them out of cursing you and your name, and just go straight to throttling them. <em> Your </em> hands also don’t have jewelry on every other finger. They are quite punch-friendly.”</p><p>Geralt frowns down at his ringed hands. Musician calluses are all that stand out, compared to his own scarred, battle hands. </p><p>“Ah, a troubled silence,” the bard murmurs. “I know what that one means. I promise I won’t punch anyone else if it truly upsets you.” </p><p>It doesn’t, not <em>truly,</em> but he doesn’t know what else to say. Other than, “Just watch your strength.”</p><p>They reach the lord’s manor at dusk. A bad time, apparently, as the artifice mage is hosting a harvest time ball all night in his liege’s honor. Their best bet is attending the ball to find the mage among the party crowd and speak with him directly.</p><p>Except no one is allowed in without a costume or an invitation, the steward at the manor gates informs them. Party rules. </p><p>All things they can work around. So Jaskier promises. It ought to be troublesome for such short notice arrival, but not for one bard pulling on all his connections, calling out old owed favors out of reserve. </p><p>Geralt loses track of how many times he hears of a guy who knows a guy who is friends—or family—with the right guy they need. Even the awkward matter of having swapped bodies is no hurdle to him.</p><p>No one questions why Geralt of Rivia is the one speaking in his friend's steed, not when he knows the right things to say and how to say them.</p><p>“You’re having too much fun with this,” he tells the bard with narrowed eyes. “What are you planning.”</p><p>Jaskier turns to him with a wink. A <em> wink, </em> while wearing Geralt’s damn face.</p><p>“Oh, just that we should join the party, maybe have something of a good time ourselves, and <em> then </em> consult the mage about our predicament.”</p><p>Geralt sighs. His back hurts again, so he takes a seat.</p><p>They’re at some famous tailor shop. He couldn’t bother to remember the tailor’s name, though he a seemed nice enough guy, if a little <em> too </em> familiar with Geralt—always mistakenly. His unwelcoming stiffness does not deter Jaskier’s old acquaintances from patting his arm and hugging him in greetings.</p><p>But explaining they aren’t <em> themselves </em> would take more time than it’s worth, and possibly freak some people out, so they roll with it. Or more specifically, <em>Jaskier</em> rolls with it while Geralt nods and repeats what's been said.</p><p>The outfits the tailor whips up from discontinued orders are expensive, is the witcher’s greatest gripe. Especially since they’re only going to wear them once. </p><p>But, Jaskier likes showmanship. Being in the witcher's body hasn’t tempered that side of him. </p><p>The armor he acquires for Geralt is smart. They can play at switching roles for the night and explain away their weird behavior under the pretense of keeping in character.</p><p>If only it wasn’t <em> a costume.</em></p><p>He would have been fine wearing Jaskier’s chosen party outfit. Somehow, wearing pretend witcher clothes feels worse. The quality isn’t good. The studded leather is too light, too stiff, and not big enough around the arms for proper mobility. The shoulders are padded for show, not defense. </p><p>He’s only glad his swords are his own—real silver and steel. Their presence is a reassuring weight.</p><p>The curtain separating their dressing rooms parts, allowing Jaskier to waltz in and display his new garish getup. It’s not so different from what he wears when invited to sing at court, really. </p><p>Geralt’s face and grinning yellow eyes is all that breaks the mirage.</p><p>“Well well! What do you think? Not bad for a last minute scramble.”</p><p>Geralt picks at his collar. “I think I could have just bought and fitted myself with real armor. It would have been cheaper.”</p><p>“Oh, come on. The costumes aren’t meant to be accurate! Just flashy.”</p><p>“I gathered,” he mumbles to himself. </p><p>Of course, Jaskier catches his words—unfortunate witcher hearing. He raises twin brows, pointing at the dark leather decorating Geralt’s chest in appraisal. “Sweet gods, that brigandine makes me look dangerous.”</p><p>Geralt points back. “What's with the yellow jerkin? It washes out my skin.”</p><p>“It’s <em> supposed </em> to match your steely eyes, you fashion disaster. Now stop dallying and put on your shiny belt. It’s time to steal the show.”</p><p>“Steal the show?”</p><p> </p><p>By ‘steal the show’ Jaskier actually means <em>‘turn everyone’s eye to us in awe and jealousy’.</em></p><p>Geralt can say by the stares they get on the way to the manor gates that <em> something </em> is certainly turning their heads, but he’s not too sure if it’s awe. Or jealousy.</p><p>The manor’s footman, for one, is not impressed.</p><p>“I’m sorry, your name again?”</p><p>“Yes, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, here to—”</p><p>Geralt elbows his side, hard. <em>“Shut up.”</em> For once, he clears his throat to speak. “Forgive him, he’s an idiot.”</p><p>Quite a few people behind them chuckle. Not the footman, though. He doesn’t even blink. His composure is solid marble stone, an impressive force to meet at the front door to what is supposed to be a fun event.</p><p>Geralt respects him already.</p><p>“Invitation?” the gentleman asks with a bored tone.</p><p>It’s only regrettable that they <em> don’t </em> have any such thing. Which means he’s going to have to ‘play at switching roles’, to take Jaskier’s words literally.</p><p>For that, he puts on his most affronted face, which slips onto Jaskier’s face almost naturally. </p><p>“Do you not recognize me?” </p><p>To that, the footman actually blinks.</p><p>Over his shoulder, Jaskier hums.</p><p>“The bard Jaskier. The White Wolf’s busker? Do I need to sing my most famous of songs written in his name to recall your memory?”</p><p>
  <em> Gods, the man better say no. </em>
</p><p>“Oh.” The man drones with colored surprise, though his face yet remains a slack, impassive wall. “Why yes, I know of you. Quite a few bards have come around singing your ballads.”</p><p>“Hacks riding other people’s shoulders,” Geralt hears whispered over his shoulder. </p><p>Thank the gods that he won’t have to belch out a song he’s never sung himself. He can imagine that would have gotten them kicked out faster, and <em> then </em> where would they be?</p><p>They are let in on compliments to their costumes.</p><p>Simply delightful—it's going to go straight to Jaskier's head. He's going to want a repeat occasion of their switched apparel.</p><p>Well, if everything works out tonight, he honestly wouldn't mind being on the bard-costume end. Never mind that he hates courtly celebrations and their crowded halls.</p><p>Once inside, Geralt comes to the understanding that being in a crowd is indeed difficult for him.</p><p>Not because the people hiss at him under their breaths. It’s the opposite. They just, come up to him. A few clap his shoulder and his arms, for which he jumps, nearly throwing punches every time. He’s managed to catch himself so far. It’s actually...becoming easier to ignore the urge, the more people come up to him.</p><p>He’s not deemed a threat to anyone, even with two very real weapons over his shoulder. To the gathered crowd, he’s just a bard. A harmless human. </p><p>Jaskier, he sees, receives plenty of cold shoulders and muted greetings. It’s never to an aggressive extent, more like frightful skittering. But Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind. He takes it in stride, not like in the tavern. At least here he understands that causing a scene in Geralt’s honor hurts their cause. They've managed to sneak in—would be a shame for it to have been for naught.</p><p>Shoulder to shoulder, they walk into the ballroom where the party’s going hard. The lord’s hired a band of strings. Geralt even swears he recognizes a couple of their faces, and if <em> he </em> recognizes them, then they must be quite the famous group. Maybe even on Jaskier’s level.</p><p>Not that he really knows on what level Jaskier <em> is </em> in terms of his fame. That he's popular in most circles is apparent. People sing his praise to new ears. It is, quite literally, enough to get them into an exclusive costume party, despite neither of them having any invitation at hand.</p><p>And their costumes. The ease with which he got them.</p><p>It’s impressive, actually. Jaskier just, <em> knows </em> how to work people. He knows how to make himself likeable, how to leave an impression. Geralt can admit he, too, fell right into his charismatic trap, by saving Jaskier from trouble, over and over, and still choosing to stick by him, over and over.</p><p>Even stuck in a body not his own, Jaskier works his magic. </p><p>Coming uninvited to a human fete with the assumed identity of a witcher is a precarious thing, but he's managing. He’s dressed himself in clothing familiar and comfortable to himself, yes, but it’s also familiar and comfortable to everyone <em>else.</em> By showing a lute instead of a sword, they are, at most, apprehensive. Wary, but not alarmed. Maybe even amused. </p><p>How he latches onto Geralt, the erstwhile witcher-turned-human, gives some reason to pause. Their swapped outfits become more people’s topic for questioning and not, say, the witcher’s presence.</p><p>Jaskier <em> may </em> be an idiot, but he’s a clever idiot.</p><p>Jaskier pulls him from his quiet musings with a whistle.</p><p>“I think I see him,” he says, pointing at a flight of stairs that leads into the ballroom. “Man in the red coat. He’s wearing, uh, what I would say is an unrecommended amount of rings and necklaces.”</p><p>He’s not wrong about that. The man he points to hovers over the bottom stairs, his neck hidden behind clashing chains of silver and gold. His fingers are crooked over the balustrade, and how he can even <em> do </em> that with the bejeweled bands that flash over every knuckle is a miracle produced by magic.</p><p>“He’s a collector alright.”</p><p>“Fantastic. Lead the way, bard.”</p><p>“I don't have to be the one in front always, <em> witcher.” </em></p><p>He leads the way to the stairs, anyway. </p><p>Very quickly they realize that the man is...an odd one. For one, he’s alone, and yet he talks as if in conversation about his excellent taste in caterers, as the hors d'oeuvres are beautiful <em> and </em>exquisite. </p><p>Some people pay him mind as he passes—anyone would, thinking the man to be addressing them. But no, he’s just talking to himself in a casually loud volume. </p><p>Bragging to himself, more like.</p><p>The two of them come directly into the mage’s path and stop where it will be difficult to ignore them. This displeases the mage, going by his expressive frown, and by the silver-ringed finger that flicks towards Geralt’s nose. His human eyes cross focusing on it.</p><p>“If you are looking for my lord, host of the fete, he’ll be down for the best-dressed announcement. Though if you have a message, I <em>could</em> pass it on.”</p><p>Jaskier nudges for him to speak first, and that just makes Geralt scoff. He’s playing the reticent-witcher act a little too well.</p><p>“Uh, not looking for the lord. We heard you deal with artifacts?” From within his 'monster treasure bag'—what he called it to anyone who asked—he pulls one of the pieces of the broken artifact. </p><p>The shard instantly catches the mage’s attention. </p><p><em>Now</em> Jaskier decides to speak up. “We thought you might be able to help us. It’s, well, it sort of blew up in my hands. Technically <em> his </em> hands. If you catch my meaning?”</p><p>The mage blinks in confusion, but all the same he moves them to a quiet corner of the room where he can listen to them explain without prying ears how it is that they’ve found themselves in each other’s bodies. </p><p>“Curious!” the mage Barnibis or Berdabus—he hasn't introduced himself—calls out, magically twisting and turning the cracked shard in the air so as to not touch it to his skin. “You've come upon an engraved mirror.”</p><p>“That’s supposed to be a mirror?” Geralt takes a second look at it. The whole thing looked like a wide dinner plate, too foggy to be a mirror. </p><p>“It has gone many years without due care. Possibly centuries. But I recognize the style and material to be of elven craftsmanship. <em> Very </em> old elven craftsmanship, of the age when man first came to the Continent.”</p><p>Geralt's eyebrows jump in shock, and he glimpses from the side that Jaskier himself turns a little pale at the appraisal. He’s never been superstitious, but Geralt would have hated to be the one to break a thousand year-old elven mirror. </p><p>The mage goes on as if he’s not hovering a veritable piece of history in his hands—but then again, he might be wearing something just as precious and rare, or have a mirror of his own in his collection.</p><p>“An artifact like this would have been used by ancient elven mages to see into dreams and memories, to prophecy and forewarn what is and will happen to the soul of the mirror’s choosing. Which, explains the powerful magic that was imbued into it. It’s actually a miracle neither of you suffered severe injuries when the mirror released a wave of powerful, unbridled magic.”</p><p>“Is it?” </p><p>“Quite so.” </p><p>Geralt huffs, his brow furrowed. That Jaskier just, <em> caught </em> it, without thinking, it could have ended so much worse for him. </p><p>“Of course instead,” the mage cheerfully adds, “What happened is that the mirror transposed the magic inside it into <em> you.” </em> He gestures to Geralt again, with one of his many ringed fingers, though he is obviously referring to Jaskier. “As an inanimate object, you would have ‘mirrored’ the soul of another. But as you are not without souls, your souls swapped places.”</p><p>“Is that, uh, bad?”</p><p>“Not at all. It should be a matter of repairing the artifact and drawing the magic out from you and back into it.”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>Without waiting any further, he unhooks the bag from his waist and sets in carefully on the one empty table of their corner. No need to break the artifact any <em> more </em> and make the work of repairing it harder. </p><p>A minute passes as the mage contemplates the pieces one by one, and that’s a minute too long in Geralt’s book. Already he’s suspicious. </p><p>“I shall help. In exchange for the artifact, of course.”</p><p>Ah, right, he’s a collector in the end. For a second he thought the guy would ask for something more, like payment, or a favor. </p><p>“Yeah, fine. You can have it for free.” Neither of them would get any use in a magic mirror that likes to peek inside people’s brains.</p><p>“Oh? For free?”</p><p>He shouldn’t have said anything. Could have left it at <em> ‘fine’ </em> and not said a single word more—now, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, the mage rephrases himself to say, “In exchange for a favor then. The artifact can come after.”</p><p>Jaskier can probably hear how he’s grinding his teeth. “What. Favor?”</p><p>“See the lady dressed as a crimson fairy at the center of the dance?” </p><p>They turn their heads towards the room, and there in the middle stands a figure in bright red. Her mannequin silhouette, coupled with the drooping cut of translucent wings, is absolutely striking where the people have preferred darker, bluer colors to wear. And though she does not sway to the rhythm of the music being played, her laughter tells her enjoyment well enough. </p><p>Something like a copper band glitters around her arm.</p><p>“She bears the Bracelet of Harzot,” the mage explains with some irritation coloring his voice. “It’s an old gift of mine to the lord, which he’s squandered on the lady to try and gain her affection. Retrieve it for me.”</p><p>Geralt notes the size of the crowd on the floor, and the woman’s position in front of every eye in the room. “How are we supposed to do that?”</p><p>“That’s your method to decide, witcher-bard. Convince her, steal it from her.” A hand waves around the air dismissively, “I don’t care, so long as you succeed and bring it to me intact.”</p><p>Jaskier and Geralt share a look. Have they gotten themselves involved in an aristocratic feud?</p><p>Whatever he thinks of it, Jaskier is the first to break contact with a nod. He takes the witcher by the arm and guides him away from the mage’s fixed gaze. </p><p>“I can speak with her.”</p><p>To that, Geralt agrees, wholeheartedly relieved of another conversation, this time one intent on deception.</p><p>Of course that backfires the second she sees a man with witcher eyes come at her. Jaskier doesn’t get to say a word as she cringes away to a side table with a tall tray of hors d'oeuvres.</p><p>“So,” the bard starts with a bit of a sulk, “It appears I cannot use my wiles on her, as she is disturbed by my current looks.”</p><p>“Jaskier...”</p><p>“Oh, please, I can handle rejection. I’m fine, just a bit miffed, in <em> your </em> defense. She wouldn’t even spare me a glance after catching my, uh, eyes.”</p><p>“Yeah.” He shrugs. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, and he knows well that Jaskier’s faced his own share of unpleasant audiences. But it <em> is </em> different, living as a witcher. </p><p>Geralt would rather he not experience that sort of open hostility for longer than necessary.</p><p>“I guess <em> I </em> have to speak with her.”</p><p>They both grimace, but it’s to be done. Geralt is the human of them now—and most of all, well-received among lords and ladies. </p><p>But part of that held affection is Jaskier's own charm, isn’t it? How the bard speaks and carries himself confidently around a room, even to those he’s caused <em> some </em> grievance. Geralt isn’t...he’s not <em> good </em> at that. </p><p>Fuck it, he needs to at least try. Save Jaskier from doing more of the night's work.</p><p>He pauses before her table, though she’s not yet looking up to acknowledge his presence. Clearing his throat into his fist ought to be, what, the polite thing to do? </p><p>“Spare a second...my lady?”</p><p>She turns and blinks her eyes up. They linger on his swords but she seems to think it part of the costume. That’s already marginally better than he’d first hoped. </p><p>“Pardon the interruption. You’ve a lovely fairy dress, and,” stumped, he looks at her physicality, “an even lovelier face.”</p><p>One delicately plucked eyebrow climbs her brow. </p><p>Gods, that was poor. It may help that Jaskier isn’t known for his flirting, if she knows whose face—and body—he wears. </p><p>“My, Jaskier, is that any way to speak to an old friend?”</p><p>Well—that answers the question of if she <em> knows </em> him, to an unfortunate degree.</p><p>“We...know each other?”</p><p>Her laughter returns, a smile like sharpened steel accompanying it. “Has it been so long between courts and lovers that you’ve forgotten me?”</p><p>Oh curse his ass. </p><p>He looks away for a split second to Jaskier, because <em> what </em> is he supposed to say to her, a person who may well recognize that there is something off about him, as he pretends to be Jaskier to his best ability? </p><p>The bard himself covers the upper portion of his face shamefully behind a palm. <em> He </em> seems to be remembering her now, far too late to save them the embarrassment—and Geralt’s current suffering.</p><p>He’ll have to change course and hope it works.</p><p>In short order, the witcher props an elbow on the table, closing distance to say lowly to her in confidence, “From one friend to another, it would be in your best interest if you offer me that bracelet. It originally belonged to a mage. And he’s here, looking for it. He’s very upset without it. Trust me when I say you don’t want to be on a sorcerer’s bad side.”</p><p>He doesn’t want to scare her—truly <em>he’s</em> the one that should be worried about the mage’s possible ire—but the power of suggestion can go a long way to urge people to listen and go with what he says.</p><p>The bait doesn’t work at all as expected. In fact, her smile <em> grows.  </em></p><p>“Hm, yes, what did dear lord Feliks call it? The Bracelet of Harzot? Said something about protection against magic.” She taps a painted fingernail over her chin, the bracelet in question slipping the slightest bit down the length of her arm. “So shouldn’t it be better if I keep it then? To protect me from the sorcerer’s ‘bad side’?”</p><p>She’s got sound logic there, which crumbles his already-failing plan to dust. </p><p>As a last bet, Geralt asks, “What would convince you to give it to me?” because the lady <em> must </em> want something. Her smile is too big and her light eyes too sharp to be an innocent in the lord and the mage’s scheme. If only he’d thought of that sooner.</p><p>And then she lays down her conditions to trade with viper’s eyes.</p><p>“Sing me a song, the one you did at our last Saovine ball, and I’ll part with the bracelet. Do you remember the one?”</p><p>Oh curse his ass backwards into <em>an archgriffin’s nest. </em></p><p>She’s purposely messing with him—with Jaskier, really, and yet she somehow still manages to mess with <em> him </em> too, in the worst of ways—asking him to <em> sing. </em></p><p>As delicately and tactfully as he can, Geralt bows his head to her. “Give me but a minute to retrieve my lute from my friend.” </p><p>Then, immediately, he bolts on his two human legs back to the bard, who is still holding his face in his hands when Geralt whisper-shouts, <em> “Jaskier what the fuck.” </em></p><p>“Sorry! Sorry, I swear I didn’t recognize it was Catrine until she smiled. She has the whitest set of teeth I’ve ever seen.”</p><p>That wasn’t what he noticed about her smile, exactly, but he’s halfway right so Geralt doesn’t say anything on that. No, he’s got worse news to focus on.</p><p>“She wants me to sing what you sang for her last.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Jaskier contributes nothing else. It does not bode well. </p><p>“Tell me you know which song she means.”</p><p>“Uh...”</p><p>It’s all he needs to hear to get that Jaskier has absolutely no idea what song the woman last recalls. </p><p>“That’s it, I’m going to rip the bracelet off her wrist.”</p><p>“Geralt wait!” He holds the witcher back with a single hand on his shoulder—and a few people start to stare at the commotion, which is the only thing that calms Geralt down from putting on his own show to rival Jaskier’s public tirades. </p><p>“Listen to me Jaskier. I can’t sing.”</p><p>“Actually,” the bard-made-witcher whispers with inordinately bright eyes, “Yes you can. You’re <em> me. </em> You have my voice, my hands. It’s possible, just as it’s been possible for me to let your eyes do the work for me.” </p><p>“I regret telling you that.”</p><p>A hard hand claps his back. He’s not sure whether Jaskier figured out how much strength to use to not break a bone, or if he’s doing as he’s preaching and not focusing on it.</p><p>“Don’t think too hard on it, and let ‘me’ do the rest.”</p><p>“I can’t fucking believe this...”</p><p>He’s handed the lute with careless abandon. Geralt’s never touched the thing outside of its case, nor has he ever been interested in doing so—and yet his fingers clasp and press around what seem to be the right spots for playing, the specialized calluses of his hand staying where they touch. Even his back straightens on its own, though in doing so, an uncomfortable knot makes itself known at the base of his spine. </p><p>It’s only because he’s become even <em> more </em> self-aware that he senses anything change. And that’s probably bad, isn’t it, if he’s meant to let Jaskier’s body and memory take over?</p><p>Before he returns to the scarlet lady, he tests the lute, a few people turning to him as the dancing’s come to a pause while the musician’s have a bite to eat.</p><p>Just great, he’s going to get a full audience’s attention for his ‘first time’. </p><p>He’s simpler in his reintroduction than Jaskier ever is, but he doesn’t want to stall else he freezes up. A simple, “For the lady Catrine,” is how he presents his intent, to her amusement.</p><p>There’s a slight tremble in his voice when he starts something slow and familiar, but if anyone pays it mind, they could easily think it stage nerves for a beautiful lady’s favor.</p><p>He should not pay it any mind either. Don't<em> think about it,</em> he thinks loudly. <em>Play the strings.</em></p><p>The song’s something familiar, a small tavern favorite he’s heard a dozen times. More than a dozen. He can’t picture a specific time or a place, but it’s there in his mind’s eye, hovering out of reach. </p><p>Whether he unravels the song or not, or does it any good, that’s no longer hammering his thoughts. Instead, it’s the feeling that pricks the hairs at the back of his neck. A feeling like...when he’s watching Jaskier from the back of a room, just listening without really thinking about the lyrics. Sometimes they’re good, with a punch for introspection. Sometimes they’re just silly old fun, more nonsense and rhyme than reason. The audience likes those best, singing together at the chorus. </p><p>Like this, he’s not part of a corner of the crowd, but dead center. He hears the song inside his head first, like a dull echo, before hearing it ring in the room.</p><p>When he’s done, he’s been letting ‘Jaskier’ do the rest so diligently that he’d not noticed everyone clapping, the lady Catrine included. At her cheer, the closest of the costumed guests tease and nudge his side to speak with her. </p><p>Being on the receiving end of so much open praise is...it leaves him feeling conflicted. His face heats up in what must be a blush at the claps and friendly jests. They may not be flattering <em> him, </em> exactly, just who they believe him to be, but it’s still a strange, unexpected reaction that leaves him a little dumbstruck.</p><p>“That’s not the right song,” the scarlet lady of the night says, taking away the buzz in his limbs and replacing it with dread.</p><p>“But wasn’t it better?”</p><p>To his relief, she smiles—a kinder smile that sits around her eyes. “It was. You’ve improved your craft, Julian.”</p><p><em> Julian? </em>Is she misremembering his name on purpose too? </p><p>Well, whatever that. The bard’s given plenty of ridiculous false names to save his ass. Might just be that, and he for one does not care enough to correct her, as she unclasps the magic bracelet for him to take. </p><p>“Here, your reward.” The crowd murmurs excitedly at the apparent gift. Privately, to his ears alone, she adds, “Tell Bardenis he should try <em> talking </em> to the lord about what his gifts mean, instead of bragging about them to save himself from the embarrassing chat.”</p><p>Geralt blinks. “I...will?”</p><p>With the bracelet now in his possession, he meets back with Jaskier who shakes him up with a wide grin, which on Geralt’s face is still disconcerting.</p><p>“That was great! Though seeing myself perform made for a, hm, strange sight.”</p><p>He grumbles, “I never want to hear about this again. Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, excellent, you retrieved it.”</p><p>“Yeah.” The bracelet is handed across the table. “Lady Catrine also said you should talk to your lord, and stop bragging.”</p><p>The mage turns an incredibly bright shade of pink. “Right—well, hrm.” He clears his throat into his adorned hand. “A deal’s a deal. If you would follow me to the garden? It is closed from visitors for the ball, and the hedges would shield away from prying eyes. Once the mirror is repaired, I’ll draw the magic out from your body and back into it. Should be fairly straightforward to return your souls then.”</p><p>“Sounds great.”</p><p>“Geralt, wait.”</p><p>He stops, blue eyes turned to the bard. A deep frown wrinkles his brow. </p><p>“Are you sure you want to go back? You can just...be human.”</p><p>Geralt takes a good second to really consider what Jaskier means.</p><p>Would he want to stay human? Certainly there are some good things to it. People are not quick to judge him. With Jaskier's face, he even has something of an advantage. A reputation. He could even grow used to not having his enhanced senses. </p><p>He wouldn't have to hunt dangerous beasts for a living. A life of witchering could simply be forgotten.</p><p>His swords weight heavy on his back. He already knows his answer.</p><p>“At your expense? No, I refuse. We’re going back to how we were before this whole thing.”</p><p>“But you—“</p><p>“Jaskier.” He bumps the bard's arm, shaking his head. “I miss being myself.”</p><p>In that, Jaskier agrees. “I miss you being yourself too.”</p><p>“Then it's settled. Bardenis.” The mage blinks long and slow at his name. “You better make this quick.”</p><p>“Oh I intend to, if I am to make it back in time for the lord to come down and steal the show.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He <em>really</em> delivers his word and makes quick work of the swapping. Probably dangerously fast, if Jaskier's sudden nausea says anything about it. Is there such a thing as soul-whiplash? Or is it just the side effects of thousand year-old magic rattling inside his body?</p><p>Either way, they’re back to being themselves not too worse or wear. They take off before the party is over—after profuse thanks are given to the mage on his part—and sleep the resurgent vertigo off at some cheap inn, not even bothering to ask for a nice room. Just slam his face down in the nearest pillow. He thinks he feels Geralt do the same beside him. </p><p>The morning beings a fresh, new, awfully long day.</p><p>Roach for once is in a good mood. It might be that she senses everything's in order. Geralt is back to being typical-surly, his golden standard for her. </p><p>All through the day, they do a great job of ignoring the fact that the witcher put himself in front of a merry, costumed crowd and sang for a bracelet, and that Jaskier was ready to give up his body after seeing Geralt's confused, bewildered eyes widen at being so readily praised and accepted by strangers of all kinds.</p><p>It was, admittedly, a bit of an impulsive thought. But they will never speak of it again, so he's fine with simply leaving it tucked in a private corner of his brain.</p><p>Ahead of him, Geralt brings Roach to a halt. “We’re stopping here.”</p><p>“What, so soon?” The sun hasn't yet set over the trees. </p><p>“I’m not having you complain because of your back.”</p><p>“I haven’t said a single word!”</p><p>Regardless, they make camp. By sunset, they’ve got pheasant cooking over a fire.</p><p>Jaskier smiles. Well, if living with his aches has enlightened Geralt to spare more reasonable time to rest, he may just complain out of principle.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you're interested, you can find me <a href="https://seventfics.tumblr.com">@seventfics</a> on tumblr and <a href="https://twitter.com/the_sevent">@the_sevent</a> on twitter.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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